Sincerely, Resignation
by Ilysia11
Summary: Over the centuries, Merlin had learned that the world eventually solved its problems with or without intervention. So he decided to be as lazy as he could before Arthur returned (—to make his life difficult). But, unfortunately, his non-intervention policy could not keep him safe from the claws of the Second Wizarding War . . .
1. And So It Begins

Well, to be honest, Merlin had planned on getting involved in the War from the start.

It was simply a matter of timing. Jump in too quickly and they wouldn't learn anything. Jump in too late and, well . . . They're probably all dead.

He remembered when he was at that stage (though he supposed his recollection _may_ be a bit spotty after 1,500 years), how he _hoped_ that someone, some powerful leader _,_ would take his place and complete his destiny for him. But then he remembered the rush of victory after he overcame an _impossible_ barrier. How proudhe'd been, how proud Gaius had been! How happy they all were.

Until at least, they weren't.

Until he _failed_ . . .

He swallowed a lump. _1,500 years and it's still a sore subject . . ._

But that wouldn't happen this time because _he_ was here and if it looked like everything was going sour, then he'd jump in and prevent it. He was Magic, after all (and Balance on Tuesdays and Thursdays).

He just wasn't expecting trouble to find him so _soon_. He had planned to show up at the final battle anonymously and help the light wizards win. There would be no need to reveal that the greatest and only warlock of all time was alive and well and—this might be important— _immortal_!

No need for that, none at all. He was quite happy living an unassuming life whilst he waited for Arthur, thank you.

But his plans came crashing down when he bumped into Destiny's current rag doll and his sidekicks.

Merlin resisted the urge to glare at the black-haired boy for finding him so soon. Couldn't he have things go his way? Just for once?

Who came in the dingiest cafe in all of London at night anyway? This was just his luck!

The boy may be under the Invisibility Cloak but such an artifact could never fool Merlin's eyes. He made the Cloak, after all (after the Peverells threatened to reveal his identity; nasty lot they were.)

Harry trailed behind his two friends—a tall, paranoid ginger in jeans at least two sizes too small and a pretty brunette who could have been having a seizure (she looked behind herself so often that he genuinely could not tell—it reminded him of a bobble head, really, only one that bounced left and right instead of up and down).

Merlin was a bit put out. They really couldn't have been any more obvious. He was tempted to take pity on them and put them all under Invisibility spells.

They took a seat in the very back corner, fidgeting slightly and jumping out of their skins when the waitress asked for their orders. After the waitress left, the brunette briefly surveyed the dingy, old cafe while the ginger conversed quietly with Harry. But she didn't even notice Merlin. It wasn't like he was hiding . . .

 _What terrible situational awareness._

Sure, the café was all-around unremarkable. The cash register stood like a dirty, washed out statue in the back of the shop, surrounded by a bar, coffee makers, and cups (though the waitress was giving it some damn good competition). A couple of dusty tables sat here and there, leaving a space in the middle for a nonexistent line. But even if the place was a garbage heap, that shouldn't stop the observant and cautious man from memorizing every scrap and dust particle in the pile.

(Though, of course, Merlin ate his own words daily—one doesn't live this long without becoming a hypocrite).

Merlin supposed he could use their lack of awareness to his advantage though. Maybe he wouldn't have to interfere now. They certainly weren't looking in his direction; their eyes were glued to the door.

He took another sip of his coffee, cringing as he swallowed the slime. Well. He was ever coming back here again.

He stood up to throw the cup away, trying to avoid the gazes of the three teenagers. The trash can was right beside the door, though, next to some burly, glowering men who had just entered the establishment (A.K.A dump).

He sat back down, deciding the effort was not worth it. With a quiet snap of his fingers (and several glances around the cafe), he vanished his cup into ether. Leaning back in his chair, he tried to decide how to leave. He could just teleport out, go through the back door, skip out of the building . . .

And yet, he couldn't help but glance back at the trio and the two new customers on the right.

Wait a minute . . . Narrowing his eyes, he scrutinized the two men. He could see their magic—their black, slimy, disgusting magic. His eyes widened as they took out their wands and began firing at the trio.

" _Expulso!"_

Light sprung forth from their wands, as fast as a bullet, and Merlin worried for a second that the trio might fall prey to it.

But Harry didn't delay even a second.

" _Stupefy!"_

A jet of red shot from the tip of Harry's wand, like a mini-torpedo zeroing in on its target. The boy had stopped, dropped, rolled, and abandoned the Cloak as the two men sent deathly curses his way.

The ginger and brunette, meanwhile, had dived to the floor, the ginger struggling to pull his wand out of his tight trousers.

( _. . . Shameful_ , Merlin groaned, shaking his head.)

As Ginger struggled, the brunette whipped out her own wand, flinging her own repertoire of curses at the two assailants. Each side huddled behind upturned tables, almost as if they were forts. Merlin idly wondered how long the brittle wood would last.

He heard a soft shriek of surprise and his head swiveled to the source. The waitress was huddling in the corner, petrified as the light show continued.

Merlin pursed his lips.

So much for not interfering.

Muttering a spell, his eyes glowed a startling gold and he eased the waitress into sleep, deleting her memories of the previous hour.

 _Damage control, check._

(There was a time where that wouldn't have been necessary— _Gods_ , if only Arthur had _lived_!)

Merlin made a face as stray curses shot off his way. He dispersed them easily enough (a wave here or snap there) but, on principle, having to do so annoyed him. He didn't like getting caught in the crossfire of others' battles. It just wasn't polite to battle with innocent bystanders around. Why couldn't they take it outside?

 _Bloody wizards . . ._ he grumbled as he banished a green curse (the Killing Curse was it? That was the name, right?).

 _Ah._

Dark, treacherous eyes rested on his own and the owner's lips curled up into a sneer. It seemed that the battling wizards had finally noticed him.

 _No, that's okay. You can go back to battling yourselves and I'll just catch up with you guys later. Say . . . the final battle?_

He cursed when one of the men (the bigger one with yellow teeth) grinned maliciously at him and sent a blue curse his way. Merlin ducked, motioning to a chair next to him to whack the man on the head.

( _Serves him right for ruining a perfectly good evening_.)

The man dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, eyes rolling to the back of his head. Merlin furrowed his eyebrows. This man looked oddly familiar . . . Thon? Thone? Thorne? Something like that. He recognized the man from Voldemort's merry band of Death Munchers.

(The meetings were actually quite dull - not at all rich in tension or theatrics! That's why he never bothered to infiltrate them himself anymore. That's what voice recorders were for.)

Silence had descended.

Merlin looked to his right and found that the other man was down, too. Nasty-looking bloke, really. Long, greasy black hair and a toad-like face, as if he were born with a perpetual scowl and temper. The cuts and bruises decorating his face like medals didn't help the image either. Snorting, Merlin's gaze passed over the three teenagers. They breathed roughly, sheens of sweat coating their foreheads, and wands raised with the utmost caution. They didn't say a word.

Merlin frowned and tried not to fidget as the uncomfortable silence grew longer. He could never stand awkward silences. (Especially when he wasn't even _standing_.)

". . . I'm not an enemy, if that's what you think," Merlin finally offered, bemused.

Didn't they wonder how the bigger man went down? Unless they thought they sent him down . . . _Well, that's rather presumptuous._

Harry stepped forward, wand still raised. The brunette hissed a warning, " _Harry!"_

"Who are you?" the boy asked, eyes narrowed. He motioned to Thon (or whatever the hell the bloke's name was). "Is that your doing?"

Merlin gave him a positively _glowing_ smile. "How nice of you to notice! That is my handiwork, I'm afraid. He tried to hit me with a bludgeoning curse. Oh, and I'm—"

He paused, about to say _Merlin._

His mouth formed an "O" for the barest of moments before he masked his slip, "I'm Marvin Emrys. Nice to meet you. I think. I'm pretty sure these two clotpoles here are your fault, though . . ."

He looked expectantly at them but they appeared stupefied by his demeanor. It took all of Merlin's self-control not to laugh at them. Ginger looked like a cross between a fish and a deer-in-the-headlights while the brunette looked positively horrified and Harry simply appeared dazed.

What? Did he have something in his teeth? He knew that slimy coffee was a Bad Thing . . .

"Er . . ." Harry started. Well, at the very least, they were lowering their wands. "Right. Well, we'll just be on our way," he muttered.

He turned around but the brunette pulled him back. "Not yet," she said, "we have to do something about Dolohov and Rowle."

Oh. He'd been way off. Oops.

She sent a wary glance his way, but as he wasn't doing anything, she barked commands to her fellow teens, "Close the doors and turn off the lights. Harry, can you help me get both of them into chairs?"

Ginger took out some silver device and clicked a latch; immediately, all the lights in the cafe flickered out of existence. Only the street lights illuminated the room (if that). Nifty little device that, Merlin decided. Though perhaps not as effective as simply snapping one's fingers.

"Wingardium leviosa," Harry whispered as the brunette followed suit. They levitated each man off the ground and into the chairs, each facing the other. The two men were slumped over in their chairs, unconscious, which was why Merlin didn't flinch when the two sickening _cracks_ let loose from the table as the two men's heads impacted with its surface.

The brunette breathed a sigh of relief but it was fleeting.

"What should we do?" she moaned. "We can't just let them walk free. And oh!" she gasped, eyes searching the dark cafe. "The waitress!"

Merlin decided to step in. "I already erased her memory. She's sleeping in the corner."

Huh. Maybe he should have stayed quiet because he just brought their attention back to him. The brunette swiveled around, dark eyes boring into his. "Oh. . ." she murmured. "Thank you." Merlin seemed to have given her an idea and, acting on it, she stepped in front of Dolohov, took a deep breath, a curious wrinkle marring her forehead, and whispered, " _Obliviate."_ She repeated the same procedure with Rowle. Not long after, the trio left, throwing suspicious looks at him all the while.

And Merlin? Well, he just sat and finished his coffee. Not the coffee he'd gotten from here, but one he kept in store. The coffee from this dump deserved to rot in Hell.

 _Odd trio_ , he mused. _But cautious enough._

They would probably recognize him when it came time for his intervention but, now, he'd disappear from their minds soon enough. Maybe he could just waltz in with a cape and mask in the final battle. He'd always wanted to do that, actually. It'd certainly preserve his anonymity.

Taking one last sip from his coffee, he stood up and threw the cup away. In the next moment, the cafe was empty, except for the snores of three Obliviated victims.

* * *

" _Bloody hell!"_ Ron remarked. "Who _was_ that? He seemed a bit touched in the head, didn't he? He didn't even ask who we were or why there was a fight in a muggle shop!"

Hermione shushed him, "Quiet down, Ron! We're not safe yet."

"When are we going to be safe?" he muttered darkly. "We don't even know how those two Death Eaters found us!"

Harry grimaced, looking back at the formerly destroyed cafe. "They must have some way to track us but . . ."

Hermione blanched. "Harry . . . you don't suppose you still have the Trace on you?"

"What!" Ron gasped. "That's impossible. The Trace breaks when a wizard turns seventeen—that's Wizarding law!"

"But if you were desperate enough, couldn't you find a way around that? The Death Eaters might have—they control the Ministry now," Hermione insisted.

Ron plowed on, "If they did, they'd have to be around Harry to do that and he hasn't been around any Death Eaters before Dolohov and Rowle. Right, Harry?"

Harry nodded, eyebrows furrowed. He looked behind him, back at the little cafe, oddly contemplative. Hermione didn't say anything. Instead, she guided them into a dark alleyway.

"We need to go somewhere," she murmured, "somewhere safe."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, "but what is safe anymore? They—they invaded the Burrow." Ron looked sick.

"Grimmauld Place," Harry offered. Hermione sent an alarmed gaze his way. " _What?_ No! Snape knows where that is! He could bring Death Eaters in with him."

"And because of that, it'd be the last place he'd check, right?" Harry countered. "Besides, Mr. Weasley said they'd put jinxes up against Snape."

" _Still,_ Harry, it's too dangerous—"

"Yeah, well, it's the only choice we've got, Hermione," Harry interjected. "If I've still got the bloody Trace on me, then we'll see squadrons of Death Eaters following us around anyway. I'll take my chances."

"Wait," Ron said. "Do you think that bloke in the cafe sent them to us? He was there before we were, right? Maybe watching for us."

Hermione frowned. "No, I don't think he was responsible. He took one of them down, remember? He even Obliviated the waitress for us."

"That could have been to gain our trust," Ron pressed on, "and now he's contacting his buddies and telling them where we are."

Harry sent another glance towards the dark cafe, pondering. The man didn't seem like a Death Eater . . . but who knows anymore?

"That doesn't make sense, Ronald! If he were a Death Eater, he would have attacked us as well because he's supposed to capture us, not let us escape."

Ron shrugged, muttering, "Just saying. I suppose he was too odd to be a Death Eater anyway. Too cheerful."

Harry nodded, "He reminded me of Luna . . ." Ron snorted.

"So . . . Grimmauld Place?" Harry posed again.

Hermione's expression soured but she grabbed onto their hands and Apparated to Sirius' childhood home.


	2. Infiltrating the Ministry

"But we're _not_ ready!"

Harry massaged his forehead, feeling the onset of a painful headache. He, Ron, and Hermione must have been arguing for the past _hour_.

As if these last few weeks haven't passed slowly enough.

Since arriving at Grimmauld Place, life had exploded in their faces. Remus was pissed at them and Kreacher was being _nice_ to them. That seemed to Harry like it should be reversed! Though, he did give Kreacher his old master's locket (that was quite a surprise—finding out that R.A.B. was Sirius' brother) so he shouldn't be too surprised that Kreature's cooking and manners improved.

But perhaps the most important development was discovering a horcrux's location (thanks to Dung). Though of course it was just their luck that the bloody horcrux resided with Umbridge. _Toad-faced old bat,_ Harry grumbled. And just when he thought he'd never have to see her again!

Oh yeah. And Snape was Hogwarts' new Headmaster.

. . . _Who did I piss off in a past life?_

"We don't know anything about the inner workings of the Ministry! We _don't_ know who's in charge of what and we certainly would _not_ be able to keep up a conversation with another Ministry worker. It's too dangerous to do it tomorrow. We need more surveillance, more information—"

"Yeah, we got it, Hermione," Harry interrupted. "But just how are you going to get this information? We've been monitoring the Ministry for a month and we still haven't gotten that kind of information! Even if we spied on the Ministry for a year, we wouldn't be any more prepared than we are now. Let's just do it tomorrow."

"But—"

" _Hermione._ The longer we wait, the longer we risk the locket not being there. For all we know, Umbridge could have ditched it the moment she found out it didn't open. We have all the information we need to infiltrate. It's not like we're infiltrating the Ministry for a month. We only need _one day_. We're ready."

Hermione took a deep breath. "It's just—"

She stopped, biting her lip.

"Yeah, I know," Harry sighed, "You're scared. But so am I. And even Ron—don't deny it! You're shaking even more than Hermione."

Hermione huffed a shaky laugh as Ron glowered at him.

"But it's now or never. We'll go through all of our information and recite the plan fourteen times if you need it, Hermione. We just can't wait any longer."

Hermione took a minute to respond.

"Okay. But we're reciting the plan fifty times and doing it the day after tomorrow. And . . ."

* * *

Merlin hated Mondays.

Monday meant he had to get up early and go to "work." By this definition, of course, he should hate Tuesday through Friday but by then, he was used to rousing himself at dawn.

(It reminded him of better days—when he'd get up before dawn to prepare Arthur's breakfast and for that day's adventure.)

He _loved_ Fridays, though, because they meant an end to the work week and two days of sleeping in for once.

(As sad as it sounded, sleep was one of his favorite parts of life; it was a part of the day where he was not an immortal warlock, where his friends were still alive, and especially where he possessed no burdens.)

Anyway—back to the scourge of the Earth. Mondays.

Scowling, Merlin dragged himself out of his comfy bed, waving his hand to start the coffee machine.

(He really wished that coffee had existed in Camelot—it was the drink of the gods!)

Bleary-eyed, Merlin stumbled to his closet and, once again, hit his head on the shelf beside it. _Morning ritual complete,_ he grumbled to himself. If he weren't immortal and didn't heal, then he'd probably have a shelf-shaped indent on the right side of his skull. He ran into the bloody shelf _every single morning._

 _Why haven't I moved that yet?_ he thought, scratching his rapidly fading bump. Shrugging, he opened his closet door and pulled out the day's outfit—robes, of course, since that was the dress code at that stuffy Ministry, and his handy-dandy, red scarf, still kicking fifteen centuries later (though he had magic to thank for that).

After dressing (he'd decided to go with flamboyantly orange robes— _take that you stuffy, young whippersnappers!_ ), he inhaled his coffee as well as his last apple.

 _Right_ , he thought, _I need to go grocery-shopping._

Sighing in pleasure, he sat down, swinging his legs atop the mahogany table.

Chirping resonated around the house as birds sang to the rising sun. He shivered as a cold wind swept through his cottage, accompanied by fall's serenity. He liked fall—it wasn't too hot and it wasn't too cold. It was tranquil—just right.

It was silent, too—though Merlin often wondered whether that was the season itself or his isolation. He didn't have any neighbors; he lived in a forest, surrounded by all kinds of life—wolves, plants, trees. Just not humans. And he liked it well enough.

His cottage wasn't much either but it was _his_ and that was all that mattered. He'd grown up with a peasant's sensibilities and despite the years, he'd kept them. His cottage had one floor—a bedroom, a closet, a bathroom, and a kitchen.

He didn't need anything else.

He didn't want anything else.

 _Though the prat will probably throw a fit when he returns._

Merlin smiled.

(He was going to enjoy making Arthur sleep on the couch while he took the bed. _How's that for a reversal of roles?_ )

He sat for another hour until, finally, it was time to snoop around the Ministry again.

* * *

Harry fidgeted. It was quiet—too quiet. He realized that the day was young yet but he was used to so much _movement_ that this tranquility didn't feel right. He needed to _do_ something.

 _It seems like I'm always doing something_ , he moaned to himself.

Anxious, he watched the mouth of the alley, waiting for Ron and Hermione to return.

Five minutes later (though it seemed much longer), Ron and Hermione ( _or, well,_ _Mafalda Hopkins and Reg Cattermole)_ returned, clutching a fistful of dark hairs.

"Here," Hermione thrust the hairs at him, "we don't know who he is but he went home with a rather foul nosebleed."

"And he's huge," Ron added, "Bloke's gotta be over six feet tall."

"Oh!" Hermione gasped. "That's right. You'll need bigger robes." She reached into her beaded bag and pulled out some ridiculously long, black robes. Harry stared. How tall _was_ this guy?

As he soon found out, _tall._

(The painful transformation attested to that.)

He towered over Ron and Hermione, well-built, with a dark beard and even darker eyes (as he found out through a shard of glass on the ground). He shoved on the robes, tucking his Invisibility Cloak and wand inside, before rejoining the (much) shorter Hermione and Ron.

"Blimey," Ron choked, "You could strangle a hippogriff with those arms!"

Hermione just blinked before digging around in Mafalda's robe. She withdrew a couple of golden coins. "Here, take these." Harry grabbed them and shoved them into his pockets.

Hermione took a deep breath, sending one last look at the morning sky. Then she nodded to herself.

"Let's go."

* * *

"Have I ever told you how much I hate toilets, Martin? Bloody things . . . I don't care if my shoes or my robes don't get wet—it's just the principle of it all. Like the higher ups are tellin' us we're the rubbish of the world. Don't you agree?"

Merlin smiled. "It is a bit crass isn't it? It makes you wonder why it keeps raining toilet water in Yaxley's office." He winked at the man walking with him.

The ferrety wizard huffed a laugh, absolutely delighted. "That was _you_? Brilliant move that was! Made my day the minute I heard about it."

Merlin's eyes twinkled with mischief. "I'm afraid I can neither confirm or deny that, friend."

"Of course, of course," the wizard muttered, grinning. "Your not-secret's safe with me. As long as you get the old toad, too. I hear she hates muggle things if you know what I mean." He winked. "Well, I'll be going. Bloody paperwork never seems to end . . ."

And the short man walked away. For the life of him, Merlin _still_ couldn't remember his name, even if he'd talked to the wizard every morning for the past several months. He wondered if the man had noticed his friend "Martin" had yet to call him by his name . . . Of course, he covered it up by calling the man nicknames.

Though pranking Umbridge sounded delightful. He grinned; he'd have to do that today.

 _Hmm . . . Toads or Cornish Pixies?_

Humming to himself, Merlin entered the Ministry's atrium.

Walking to his "office" was always a rather . . . interesting experience. The Ministry building itself felt like a cave to him—dimly lit and enclosed. Fireplaces (or Flooplaces, really) lined the walls of the building, like two fences trapping in hundreds upon hundreds of people.

It reminded Merlin of a prison.

The Atrium was certainly crowded enough to feel like it and, despite the mounds of bodies in close proximity, the place remained chilly.

Merlin attributed that to Magical Maintenance, though, the Ministry's custodians. (Of which he was a part; custodians almost always slipped under the radar. Well, he supposed, if they followed dress code. He was probably the only custodian in neon orange robes today.)

But what always drew a frown (or rather, a glare) from him was the black statues in the Atrium's center, towering over witches and wizards as they headed to their respective Departments. A metal witch sat on a throne beside a metal wizard, thrones which appeared elegantly decorated in the distance but morphed into naked, wailing men, women, and children the closer one approached.

 _Non-magicals._

Merlin clenched his fists. Underneath, emblazoned in gold, was the phrase "Magic is Might." It symbolized everything he hated about the modern magical world.

At least back in his day, sorcerers hated their non-magical counterparts for a damn good reason. Modern witches and wizards? There was no reason; they were cowards, born to hate all of those different from them.

(It was _disgusting_.)

Every day he walked by it and every day he had to resist the urge to tear it down. He would destroy it one day, though; that was a promise.

With one last hardened glance, Merlin wandered off to the nearest lift.

According to the Ministry files, he had been working in Magical Maintenance for a year, he was a half-blood, and his name was Martin Jones. That was all any official would read until the paper hypnotized them to walk away, satisfied. And Merlin was quite alright with that (he had very little work experience as a magical custodian; incidentally, he was the one causing it to rain in offices and thunderstorm in the higher ups' bathrooms). Never doubt for an instant that Merlin was working, though! He was!—just a different kind of work: surveillance (eternity was _boring_ if he didn't keep himself busy).

He passed into the hall's golden gates, entering a room with twenty golden grilles hiding twenty lifts behind their bars. Workers swarmed each like buzzing bees, scrambling into the first lift to arrive and cursing the last to leave. Merlin headed to one on the left with the least people queued behind it. Although, upon arrival, he could see why: one of these wizards could have passed as a half-giant!

 _Merlin's beard!_ he thought, nearly giggling to himself.

It had been ten centuries or so and he _still_ couldn't get over how _funny_ it was that the magical world used him as a swear word.

( _Don't use God's name in vain_ , he once joked to a wizard who uttered "Merlin's saggy left ball!"— _it's not saggy, dammit!_ The wizard had laughed but agreed, making Merlin wonder: just what _was_ he to these people?)

Once the man boarded the lift, it seemed no one else wanted to; even though the elevator was only five people full, workers had decided to give the man a wide berth—as if he were the scourge of the Earth.

Well, Merlin wasn't one for superstitions like that (and it was Monday; these two went hand-in-hand) so he boarded the lift just as it closed.

The witch in elegant, black robes glared at him the entire way. Merlin simply smiled back. Stuffy witch! He had worn neon yellow the other day and no one had kicked a fuss.

(Though he supposed everyone had been too blinded by the robe to consider fussing at him. As he heard later from his ferrety little friend, his wardrobe had sent the _Minister_ on a quick trip to St. Mungo's. And, well, Merlin hadn't stopped wearing his flamboyant robes since.)

"Level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff."

A bell rang in Merlin's head, a bell entitled "Dolores Umbridge." He was pretty sure her office was on this floor. A smile spread across his face.

 _Why not?_ he thought. _No better time than now._

He stepped out of the lift and heard it close behind him, golden grilles clanking together. He was in a narrow corridor, with office doors on each side, arranged in some sort of zig-zag pattern. Each black door held a golden plaque, bequeathing the hallway an elegant, if not dark, beauty. Few milled about, most holed up in their offices or, as he suspected with this floor, in court.

He traversed the carpeted corridor, looking for Umbridge's office.

 _Oh!_

With a quick thought, he turned himself invisible, neon robes and all, and continued strolling up the hallway, checking each plaque for toad slime.

Incidentally, he caught sight of the woman fleeing to the lift, clipboard in hand, so at least he needn't worry about her being in her office.

The hallway led into perhaps one of the few clearings of this Ministry jungle and in it scores of witches and wizards sat in neat rows behind work tables, twirling their wands in sync, levitating brightly colored pages, and creating pamphlets. Merlin gained a dark look as he realized what those pamphlets were.

Devilish things, propaganda.

Pink as a newborn baby, the title page read in golden letters: "Mudbloods and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society." Underneath the loopy letters was a pretty face inside of a rose, outside of which vividly green weeds went in for the kill, growling and snapping.

 _Well_ , Merlin thought, _I didn't know weeds had faces but I do know a couple of weedy faces that need pruning. . ._

As the paper flew every which way to make these awful pamphlets, Merlin decided to spice things up a little. He waved his hand over the room and his Magic journeyed outward, coating the room with a golden mist visible only to him. The mist seeped into all paper, even as the pages were being made, changing the words and the pictures—unbeknownst to the workers, of course. Only those who didn't belong here would be able to see and Merlin knew it would be a long time before anyone caught the mistake.

Grinning, he continued to Umbridge's office (he left a recorder in there, didn't he? Or perhaps it was in the Minister's office . . . whatever his name was. Thickly? Prickly? Pious? He didn't seem a very pious man to Merlin but with this crowd, well, you never know).

A magical, electric blue eye stared out from the woman's office door, staring at the assembled workers. It didn't even glance at Merlin and appeared as dead as he knew its former owner to be.

A rare moment of anger tore Merlin asunder and it took all his self-control not the blast the damn door six ways to Sunday.

He had seen sadists, murderers, child abusers, and perhaps even the Devil himself and it inured him little to see the Ministry dehumanize a great man. Alastor Moody was a great Auror, a moral man, (if a little paranoid) who sacrificed life and limb to protect these same wizards who desecrated him now. The world was poorer for his loss. Merlin snapped his fingers and sent the man's eye back to his grave, replacing it with a shoddy replica (a pink iris fit the woman better, didn't it?).

Taking a deep breath, he Misted into the office (which was much better than that dratted Apparition; no pain involved—he simply had to dissolve into mist and seep through the air. But it was only for small distances . . .) Though it did cancel his Invisibility spell. Oh well, he was inside the office now and it wasn't like the woman used video cameras.

As soon as he laid eyes on the office's contents, he took a moment to puke on the floor. He occasionally liked pink (in fact, he'd planned to wear pink robes tomorrow) but this was _obsessive_.

It would have looked like any old office with a desk, filing cabinet, and chairs if it weren't for the ghastly pink walls, the attached plates of frolicking kittens (even the poor kittens were pink!), and the white lace cloth that covered each and every surface.

 _Is English Barbie her interior decorator?_

Merlin wondered whether the woman had a mental affliction ( _it would certainly explain her behavior_ ). Perhaps he should leave her some sort of prescription medicine. What was it they gave schizophrenics again?

Shrugging, he took a step forward on the fuzzy, pink carpet and searched for his recorder. He was glad he had been too lazy to place it himself; what an atrocious sight this place was! The small device came flying out of the wall a minute later, diving straight into his pocket. He smiled and nodded to himself.

Curious, he approached a glass plate to his left, purring at the kitten inside. She was currently grooming herself and Merlin couldn't resist. It was too bloody cute.

But then the devilish cat hissed at him and jumped _out_ of the plate and onto his face! Yelling out in surprise, Merlin toppled over, wincing as the damn thing's claws tore through skin.

 _But it was in the plate!_

He wrestled with the cat, rolling over and over on the rug amid a symphony of screams, hisses, and curses. The cat's claws dug into his cheeks as he tried to pull it off, spittle flying from its growling mouth.

" _Ger—rof!"_

Then Merlin realized.

 _It was Arthur, wasn't it!_

The dollophead had heard that Merlin had planned to throw him on the couch and attacked him in retaliation!

Scowling, he finally grabbed the ghostly cat by the scruff of its neck and held it up in the light. Oh yes, it held the same dastardly look Arthur had given him one hundred times over (not the least of which was when he'd fed the King rat for dinner). He could just hear it growling, " _Mer_ lin!"

He pursed his lips.

"That was mean, you bloody cat. Are you some sort of shrunken tiger?"

The cat just hissed at him. "You're not cute anymore," Merlin groused, throwing the animal back into the plate.

 _Great security measures_ , Merlin sulked. Now he was definitely pranking the hag's office.

His face was all sticky now! Granted, his wounds had healed within minutes but the blood had stayed. How did the cat even scratch him? It was a ghost! Incorporeal. Pouting, Merlin snapped his fingers and vanished the blood on his face and carpet.

His robes were wrinkly now, too!

"I don't like cats anymore," Merlin grumbled, "You hear that, you furry wanker? Dogs are much friendlier."

The cat simply bared its teeth at him and went back to grooming. Merlin harrumphed.

"Now then . . ."

Muttering to himself, Merlin set up his prank with a couple waves of his hand before finally Misting through the door and traveling to his own "office."

* * *

 _Toilets._

Ministry workers went to work by flushing themselves down _toilets_.

Harry had since then seen the new hallmarks of a Voldemort-controlled Ministry (the posters, that horrid statue, "Magic is Might") but he still couldn't get over the _toilets._

 _That bastard must have a sense of humor after all, however twisted._

Harry followed Ron and Hermione to a line for a lift—on the right side, it looked like. But before they could take another step, a loud shout shot through the room.

" _Cattermole!"_

Ron froze. Harry and Hermione just about did as well, but Harry pushed her into one of the queues. He gave her a cautionary look. _Keep moving._

Still, they turned around to see who had yelled. Harry clenched his fists. It was a Death Eater—one of them who'd been present when Dumbledore died.

 _Yaxley._

The man's long, blond hair was tied back, leaving everyone to see his cold, pale face. It was as if someone had melded jagged edges to form a face-like structure, wrestled the skin over it, and super-glued two dark eyeballs and a razor-sharp smile on top. The man looked angry enough to start throwing about curses at any moment, which, as he headed for Ron, he might just do.

"Why is it that my office is still raining _toilet water_ after I specifically _requested_ you to fix it?"

The man's eyes flashed and he moved closer to Ron, elegant black robes sweeping the floor behind him. Ron looked around, as if Yaxley were talking to someone else but the other Ministry workers simply scurried away, looking everywhere but him.

"Raining toilet w-water?" Ron stuttered. "Well . . . it's not raining poo, too . . . is it?"

The man's lip curled. "You think this is funny, Cattermole?"

"N-No—"

Yaxley bent down over Ron's face, eyes narrowed. "I'm on my way to interrogate your wife, Cattermole. It would be a shame if I went in with even greater doubts about her Blood Status because you haven't fixed my office, now wouldn't it?" He smiled like a shark. "One hour, Cattermole. If my office isn't dry in one hour, then your wife certainly will be."

The golden grilles rattled open and Yaxley walked away. Ron was shaking. A sense of awful foreboding filled Harry. If they have to separate, then . . .? Harry suddenly realized that the queue ahead of them was there no longer. They piled onto the lift.

No one followed.

The grille shut and on the lift moved.

"If I don't show, my-my wife," Ron stammered, "I mean Cattermole's wife will be . . . What am I going to do? I don't know how to stop a raining office—much less raining toilet water."

"We can't split up," Harry interjected, "we'll come with you—"

"Are you mental?" Ron gasped. "We have less than an hour. No, you two need to find Umbridge and the bloody locket. I'll fix Yaxley's office but, uh . . . how do I stop it raining? And what if it's actually raining poo?" Ron turned green.

Hermione bit her lip. "Try Finite Incantatem. If that doesn't work, that means there's something wrong with the Atmospheric Charm. You can use Impervius to dry his belongings but other than that—"

"Level four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau," interrupted a monotone voice.

The grilles opened again and a little witch and relatively tall wizard stepped into the lift, each dressed in rather elegant, black robes. The wizard greeted him ("Hello, Albert.") and sunk into silence again. Harry nodded to him, noticing Ron and Hermione whispering fiercely in the back of the lift.

("Blimey, Hermione! I don't even know where his office is!" "He's the new Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ronald! Didn't you read it in the papers?")

"Level two, Department of Magical law enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services."

The grilles clanged open again and both strangers left. At Hermione's urging, Ron stumbled out, sending them one last desperate look before the grilles closed again.

" _Oh_ ," Hermione muttered, "maybe I should go back up. He won't know what he's doing—"

The grille slid open for the third time as the voice chimed, "Level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff."

Only this time both Harry and Hermione recognized the people poised to enter the lift.

Hermione sucked in a breath.

A short, stout woman stood with her back to the lift, talking with a tall, thin man in silky black and gold robes while two others stood nearby, looking down the hallway.

A velvety bow wrapped around the woman's fat skull, as pink as her putrid robes. Harry could just see the bubbling warts and hooked nose on her face, surrounded by her mousy brown fur.

Dolores Umbridge.

They had found their quarry.

Umbridge and her posse still hadn't seen Harry and Hermione yet. As quickly as he could, Harry fumbled with his robes and pulled out the Invisibility Cloak, wrapping it around his tall frame (he had to stoop a little). By the time he tried to pull it over Hermione, though, Umbridge had already seen her.

"Ah Mafalda! Did Travers send you?"

Hermione gazed over to the now invisible Harry, frozen, until she realized she was silent too long. She squeaked, "Yes."

Harry's eyes were wide.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ he cursed. _I should have been quicker!_

Now what?

Umbridge smiled, revealing razor-sharp pearly whites, "You'll do perfectly. You see, Minister, if Mafalda can be spared for record keeping then that solves our problem. We should be able to start straightaway." She stepped into the lift, two others following her. Harry could smell her rancid perfume. Grimacing, he maneuvered his way around the entrants, stepping close to Hermione. He lightly tapped her shoulder, letting her know he was still there.

As soon as he did, she flinched, alarmed, and, pretending to look over her shoulder at something, breathed, " _Check her office."_ She coughed, bumping him out of the lift just as it closed.

She still looked spooked even as the golden grilles closed and the lift creaked upwards.

"Ten people today and one of them the wife . . ."

Umbridge's sickly sweet voice faded away as the lift took Hermione down to court. Harry was now alone in a narrow corridor except for the group of people (including the Minister) still huddled around the lift.

He cursed himself under his breath. They hadn't planned for this. They'd only focused on getting inside, never daring to imagine they might be separated like this.

And now Ron was upstairs trying to solve a problem beyond him while Hermione was going to a court procession that would undoubtedly last hours. They didn't have that much time! And to make matters worse, he had seen Umbridge go downstairs quite possibly with the locket (if she hadn't already tossed it).

He froze, leaning against the wall, trying to quell his panic. _What now? Hermione said to check her office but . . ._

The next lift came and the last group boarded it, leaving the hallway silent and barren.

Harry took a deep breath and jumped away from the wall. He was wasting time; he had to keep moving.

Umbridge didn't seem the type to leave her jewelry lying about, but maybe, just maybe, she'd left it in her office. At this point, it wouldn't hurt to check. They'd feel awfully foolish if it turned out the locket _was_ there all along and they hadn't even bothered to look.

He moved on, walking along the wall of the narrow corridor. It felt like it went on for miles, a peg of a greater maze. He passed few workers on the way, merely a muttering wizard and shifty-eyed witch.

Finally, though, like the light at the end of the tunnel, he emerged into a room. Desks lined the vast space like a classroom as witches and wizards sat behind each, twiddling and twirling their wands simultaneously. It was rather entrancing to watch, like soldiers stepping forward in sync in a military march.

They were making something, too. Pages floated about the room, combining with more and more pages. Pamphlets, Harry realized, they were creating pamphlets. His stomach twisted as he remembered the Undesirable No. 1 flyers piling the news shelves near the entrance of the Ministry. Were they making the same thing?

Inching forward, Harry listened to his footsteps, hoping the hallway carpet was enough to muffle them. He approached a thin, blonde witch piling papers into stacks. He took the one on top as soon as she wasn't looking and jammed in under his cloak. Carefully backing away, he came up against the wall next to someone's office and pulled out the slightly crumpled paper and began to read.

His eyebrows rose to his hairline.

 _What . . .?_

The corner of his lips edged upwards. He tried to fight it (Merlin forbid if he laughed out loud!) but it was hard. It was _really_ _hard._

A quiet snigger finally escaped, followed by muffled laughter and shaking shoulders.

Raining toilet water in offices, _this_ —!

 _Is there some sort of prankster in the Ministry?_

The pamphlet, after all, read:

 **TOADS**

 _and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Human Society_

Underneath was a picture of a distinctly toad-like Umbridge with green, wart-infested skin and a large, protruding bubble in her throat. She wore a sickly sweet smile, as if that could make up for her appearance.

 _Brilliant,_ Harry grinned _. Ron will love this!_

Folding the paper carefully, he shoved it into his robe pocket, (still grinning) and looked for Umbridge's office among the few doors in the room. He didn't have to look far: he was standing right next to it. Two plagues rested on her office door, the top proclaiming:

 **DOLORES UMBRIDGE**

 _Senior Undersecretary to the Minister_

On the bottom, slightly newer plaque, was:

 _Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Committee_

Harry's delight faded. _Of course,_ he scowled _._

He was just about to turn around when he saw a circular object engraved into the door right above the plaques. He froze.

 _No . . ._

It was a magical, zooming eye—the same type that had belonged to Mad-Eye Moody, the currently dead Mad-Eye Moody.

 _They didn't . . ._

But as he inspected the eye, he knew they did. The air around him grew hot. And what was worse—Harry knew Mad Eye's iris had been blue.

This one was bloody _pink._

Hot, bubbly rage simmered in the pit of Harry's stomach and for a moment, he forgot where he was. Forgot he was impersonating some giant wizard, that he was invisible, that he was inside the thrice damned Ministry! All he wanted to do was rip out the eye, change it back to its rightful color, and bury it with its owner. Just as he reached upwards, though, the eye swiveled, startling him. He nearly jumped as the world stopped spinning and color revived.

He clenched his fists and took a deep breath.

Not now.

There was no time.

Stiffly, he threw another glance behind him, looking at the assembled workers. They appeared busy and focused (though he noticed that a couple of women maintained a quiet conversation) but even they would notice a door seemingly opening and closing on its own. No matter how stupid the wizarding world was, they were bright enough to know that likely meant some bloke under an invisibility cloak had broken into Umbridge's office.

He needed a distraction.

He reached into his robe and, feeling something hard, pulled it out. It was a Decoy Detonator. Harry stared at it for a little bit longer (he didn't want to destroy the pamphlets but, well, they hadn't brought any Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder with them . . .). With a semblance of regret, Harry tossed the Decoy Detonator into the center of the room, hand poised on the door as he waited for the fireworks.

The Detonator didn't disappoint. With a loud, rallying cry, it exploded, sending pink papers and completed pamphlets everywhere. A plume of black smoke erupted from the back of the room and screams followed shortly. By the time the commotion was over, Umbridge's door was closed and Harry was safely inside.

After quietly closing the door, Harry found some sort of telescope attached the Moody's eye. He ripped it out of the door, throwing the telescope on the floor and pocketing the eye. He'd put it in its proper place—somehow. Steeling himself for culture shock (A.K.A _pink_ and lots of it), he slowly turned around only to find . . . a swamp?

He was standing on wet ground—or rocks, really—and one more step would have found Harry taking an unexpected bath. A miniature lake bubbled in the middle of her office, holding green, murky water and lily pads. Surrounding the lake like silent guardians were barren, miniature trees covered in moss and shriveled leaves.

Where her desk would be was a wooden construct—as if wood had grown from the ground and a master carver had twisted the subsequent pieces into a makeshift desk. A massive mushroom grew underneath (which, Harry supposed, was the chair). The filing cabinet was three sheets of bark stacked on top of one another, glued together by some sort of green sap. Flies buzzed around the room and—wait, was that puke on the ground?

He gaped.

Was he in the right room?

He was expecting pink and cats and lace and general girlishness! Not a rancid, gooey swamp! Though perhaps this was Umbridge in her natural habitat . . .

That was when Harry realized. He couldn't help it. He started laughing (and promptly began coughing from the putrid stench).

Whoever had messed up the pamphlets was probably responsible for this, too. If Harry ever met him, he might just kiss him.

This was _bloody brilliant_.

(Even though his eyes were watering, his nose was closing up, and he had to breathe through his mouth to bypass the terrible smell _. Merlin,_ had something died in here?)

The longer he stayed, the hotter and muggier the air grew. Harry resisted the urge to take off his robes. (He could feel himself sweating.)

Holding his nose, he pulled out his wand and whispered, " _Accio locket!_ "

Nothing happened.

He tried it again but received no other result. He grimaced. He should have guessed Umbridge would have some sort of protective spells over her possessions (if the locket were even in here). He stepped around the lake, finding a nice, firm rock to stand on as he dug through her desk drawers. But still, he found nothing.

The locket wasn't here. He exhaled, scowling as he breathed in the office's foul stench. It was suffocating and the heat was even worse. _Bloody hell,_ he lived in England! He could only take so much of this.

Coughing, Harry turned to escape the swamp when a book on the woman's desk caught his eye. Dumbledore stared out at him from the book's glossy cover, as solemn as Harry'd ever seen him.

 _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore,_ it read, followed by smaller print: "by Rita Skeeter, bestselling author of _Armando Dippet: Master or Moron?_ "

He picked it up, poised to flip through it, when Umbridge's office door shot open as forcefully as cannon fire, followed by the Minister of Magic himself. Harry shoved the book under the Invisibility cloak, stuffed it in his robes, and dared not to move a muscle as the Minister stepped in, even though his back was turned, looking outside at something Harry couldn't see.

Finally, the man turned around, apparently baffled by the temperature, only to find a swamp blinking back at him. His mouth went slack.

" _What in Merlin's name—?"_

As the man gaped, Harry slipped past him and out the open door, sliding past Ministry staffers and into the narrow hallway. Once they were out of sight, Harry broke into a mad dash, not pausing until he reached the lifts.

The locket wasn't in Umbridge's office.

And he, Ron, and Hermione only had— _he cast a quick Tempus_ —less than half an hour to find it.

Panting, he rushed into the empty lift as soon as the golden grilles clattered open.

He had to find Ron and then Hermione and— _the grilles closed and the lift ascended_ —they'd try another day. It was too dangerous to stay. Merlin forbid if they were caught _now_ when they hadn't destroyed a single horcrux—

"M-Morning."

Harry jolted out of his thoughts and looked wildly around the lift. The grilles shut and only one person had entered.

" _Ron_!" Harry nearly shouted. "It's me!"

Ron was soaking wet, robes clinging to his body, with bits of scattered toilet paper here and there. He smelled awful, as if he'd bathed in Umbridge's swamp.

He looked up, perplexed. "Blimey, Harry! I'd forgotten what you looked like!" He looked around. "Where's Hermione?"

"She had to go down to the courtrooms with Umbridge. She didn't have any choice. I checked her office and the locket's not there. And speaking of her office, someone turned it into a swamp!"

Ron, despite his misery, found it in himself to snigger, "That's brilliant!" Harry grinned.

"And the toilet water? Did you stop it?"

Ron furrowed his eyebrows. "No—the bloody rain stopped itself after I tried a few spells. I'd just given up when the water vanished into thin air. Yaxley's supervisor thought I'd done it so he let me go. It was _weird_ , mate."

Harry blinked. "Well, that's good. Now we can go get Hermione—"

Harry quieted as soon as the lift stopped and the grilles opened to reveal a lone wizard in the brightest orange robes he'd ever seen. For a moment, Harry thought it was Dumbledore back from the grave but then he looked at the wizard's face and—

Harry's eyes widened and he quietly nudged Ron as the man stepped into the lift. Ron sent him an urgent look.

It was the wizard from the cafe—the loopy one. He was whistling to himself, smiling at them whenever they glanced in his direction.

What was he doing here? Did he work here? But Harry knew of no Department where the dress code was orange robes . . . And certainly the Ministry didn't let him wear _that?_

Silence settled into the lift as soon as the grilles closed but, as the it ascended, the man spoke, "Good morning, Harry. Busy today, isn't it, with all of these unexpected rains and thunderstorms?"

Harry _froze._

His jaw dropped and, behind him, he heard Ron squeak in surprise.

 _H-How does he know? It's impossible!_

The wizard seemed oblivious to the secret he'd unleashed, waiting merrily for the lift to stop. It was as if Harry were a regular Ministry employee, not Undesirable No. 1, as the man had revealed just _seconds_ ago.

"Er . . ." Harry stuttered, "Yeah."

Why wasn't the man doing anything?

"Especially in the courtrooms!" the wizard moaned. "I'm headed up there right now, you see, because some idiot doesn't know how to plug up holes. Really, it's just a bit of rain. If they looked at the ceiling, they'd see the hole it was raining from! Ah," he continued as the monotone voice announced, "Level nine, Department of Mysteries."

"This is my stop. Bye!"

And the man swept out of the lift as soon as the grilles opened, heading for the black door that did _not_ lead to the courtrooms.

Shakily, Ron and Harry emerged from the lift as well. The grilles clanked shut behind them before submerging them into tense, dreadful silence.

Ron was the first to break it: "How the _bloody hell_ did he know who you were? No one can see through Polyjuice Potion. Why didn't he do anything, either? Your capture's got to be worth at least a promotion around here!"

Dazed, Harry shook his head. "I don't know. Each time we see him, he just gets weirder and weirder," he muttered, head swiveling around the dark room for—

"There's the staircase," Harry pointed to the right. "Come on, let's go get Hermione."

Still, he couldn't quite get that man's face out his head—the man who knew who he was but didn't turn him in, the man who could somehow _see through Polyjuice Potion._

He wanted answers and somehow, someway, he would get them.

* * *

"Well," Merlin muttered, "this isn't the courtroom."

He'd gone through the black door, thinking it was the right way, only to find himself on the edge of some magical precipice. He couldn't see into the black abyss but it definitely was not his destination. Sighing, he stepped away from the black door and closed it, turning his gaze elsewhere. He heard footsteps to his left, no doubt the two from the lift. Were they going to the courtrooms, too? Well, perhaps he should follow their lead.

(He needed to get some sort of floor map for this place. It was _confusing._ )

He came face to face with another black door and, cautiously, he pried it open (hoping that he wouldn't fall down or _nearly_ fall down another rabbit hole). But the door opened to a dark, decorated staircase.

Blinking, Merlin began to climb it. The climb was dimly lit, as if he were ascending to Hell (as wrong as that sounded). It was cold, too, the kind of chill that accompanies despair—the deep-seated feeling in your bones that something wasn't right and no blanket, no fire could solve it.

Merlin's stomach twisted. He knew automatically what would meet him on the other side.

 _Dementors._

He gulped.

He was fresh pickings for them; his misery spanned centuries— _centuries_ for them to lap up and exploit. He stopped. He couldn't bloody well go up there! He'd faint as soon as he saw one of the blasted things without protection! And he'd left his talisman at home, thinking, like any sane person, that he wouldn't run into a _Dementor_ in the _Ministry._

He pressed himself to the wall, panting. _What protection spells do I know for a situation like this?_

He knew what they hated, so perhaps he could chase them all away. But that'd look a bit suspicious (like killing them all).

He supposed he could coat himself in a sheet of light. That was what the Patronus came from, after all . . . His friend had watched him doing it all those centuries ago (he couldn't remember his name unfortunately) and, impressed with the theory, he set about recreating the effect with wand magic and, well, he did it!

(Merlin had always thought it was a lot cooler than his method. He wanted a spirit animal!)

He closed his eyes and conjured his best memories.

 _Messing around with the Knights. Arthur. Kissing Freya. Gaius. Talking to his father . . ._

One lone tear escaped his eye before it transformed into a ball of effervescent light, growing and growing, floating in front of Merlin like the guide he'd sent Arthur fifteen centuries ago in the Caves of Balor. It looked like a miniature sun, radiating warmth and light in this desolate, cold place. Suddenly, it zoomed away, spinning and spinning around Merlin as its light and heat condensed into a long, thin sheet as tall as he. The sheet wrapped around him, fitting to his contours and every single hair on his head.

 _Custom-made_.

Once it finished, Merlin's skin _glowed_ the same gold as his eyes, like a lone lighthouse on an island isolated by the sea. Merlin felt empowered and _warm._ He could no longer feel the chill that suffocated the stairwell, only the joy of his own Magic. Smiling, he took a step upwards, light trailing behind him like a cloak.

 _Wait . . ._ He couldn't step foot in the courtroom looking like a firefly on steroids! Waving a hand down the length of his body, he weaved a glamour around himself—the same image people would see of him if he weren't a glow stick.

The light winked out of existence for a moment before flooding right back, now invisible to all eyes but his own.

(Well, and the Dementors.)

Reaching the foot of the stairs, Merlin found the Dementors loitering outside of the courtrooms, hovering over awaiting muggle-borns who (some with family, others without) huddled together on wooden benches. The room was as dark as the despair it housed. Merlin continued walking to the courtroom's door. As he walked by, some of the room's despair faded, consumed by Merlin's Magic.

Several of the muggle-borns relaxed into an invisible embrace. Merlin smiled gently.

(Glad he could help, if only for a little while.)

The Dementors, on the other hand, looked less than happy to see him (although he couldn't see their faces, he just _knew_.)

They rattled uneasily, black cloaks swaying as if by some invisible breeze. They looked like they were shivering. Merlin grinned at them as he approached the door. Just as he grasped the doorknob, he sent back one last look and stuck his tongue out at the awful creatures. _Not so smug now, are you?_

Then he slipped safely inside the courtroom.

The room was small and austere (not the lavishly decorated room he'd expected to see). Black-tiled walls framed the room while a dusty floor housed empty benches. In fact, only three seats were filled—those on a raised platform guarded by an ivory balustrade. Behind it, Umbridge sat in the middle with that Yaxley fellow to her left and another, rather pale, woman to her right, who was taking down notes with a quill. The gigantic wizard he'd met on the lift was behind her . . . under Harry's Invisibility Cloak?

Merlin's eyes widened. _Merda_. _Polyjuice Potion. Which means—_ Merlin looked at the woman who was probably the brunette from the café. _Ah bullocks,_ he thought, remembering what he'd called the wizard in the lift. _He's going to think I know . . ._ Yup, he'd definitely spent all his luck centuries ago.

A cat Patronus danced up and down in front of Umbridge, warding off the Dementors posted in the corners of the room. Directly below them, a small, frightened woman clutched her robes and squeezed a ferret-like wizard's hand (the one he'd seen in the lift just a short while ago— _ah! The ginger!_ ) as she stared at the three on the high platform. Most amusingly, a gigantic, pink umbrella covered their heads while a storm brewed above, raining cats and dogs down onto the court procession.

 _They already cast Impervius, I see,_ Merlin snickered.

He tip-toed into the room, quietly waiting for the toad to acknowledge him. She was in the middle of questioning: ". . . your arrival at the Ministry today, Mrs. Cattermole. Eight-and-three-quarter inches, cherry, unicorn-hair core. Do you recognize that description?"

Mrs. Cattermole nodded, eyes shining with unreleased tears.

Umbridge opened her mouth to respond when a floorboard creaked underneath Merlin. She looked up, eyebrows furrowed. She studied him for a brief moment, eyeing his robes distastefully.

"What are you doing here? This is a confidential court procession," she simpered.

Merlin smiled in return. "You requested Magical Maintenance, didn't you, Madame?" He nodded to the downpour atop them. She smiled tightly.

"Very well. Carry on."

The woman next to Umbridge jumped violently, almost knocking over her ink-pot but her neighbors didn't notice. _Looks like Harry scared the living daylights out of her._ He grinned and rounded the corner of the high platform, taking a look at the rain (and shielding himself from the unforgiving waters, of course).

"Could you please . . . from which witch . . . you took . . . wand?"

The ceiling was _really high_ —so high he couldn't even see where it ended! No wonder they couldn't plug up the holes. They couldn't see them!

"T—took? I didn't . . . from anybody . . . when I was eleven years old . . . chose me."

Muttering to himself, Merlin dug around his robe and pulled out a twig he'd gleaned from one of the trees in Umbridge's office. He sat on his other one just a day ago and, unfortunately, broke it. The twig was slightly bent and, for some reason, rather hairy, (he didn't dare think what that might mean) but it would look like a wand from a distance. Close up? . . . Maybe not.

"No . . . Mrs. Cattermole . . . choose witches or wizards . . . not a witch . . . responses to the questionnaire . . . Mafalda . . . me."

 _Now,_ Merlin thought, as he peered up at the rain. _Let's fix this. Especially since I didn't start this one._

He extended his hand and a pair of blue goggles appeared in it. He wrapped them around his head and, nodding to himself, looked back up at the ceiling. He tapped on the side on the goggles, zooming in on the hidden ceiling. No ceiling could hide from these goggles—many had tried and all had failed. Humming to himself, he continued to zoom, more and more, until, at last, he found the blasted thing. Clouds pressed against the ceiling, spitting out water in a downward pour.

Now where was that hole . . .?

Merlin zoomed in again, past the clouds, before finding a tiny little crevice, about the size of his finger, from which the billowing clouds came.

Grinning, he fumbled with his twig as he extended it over his head. Holding it as he held a paper airplane, he raised his arm behind him, twisted his body sideways, took a step forward, and launched the twig into the air. With his handy-dandy goggles, he guided the twig's path upwards and through the clouds, before finally forcing it into the hole. At once, the clouds dissolved and the rain vanished, clearing up the humid courtroom. Merlin grinned and took off his goggles.

 _Merlin: 1, Ceiling: 0._

He turned around to inform the toad of the vanquished rain when—

" _Stupefy!"_

Umbridge slumped onto the table, unconscious, her silver cat disappearing into ether.

(The room suddenly grew much darker as those demented corpses left their posts. Well, to everyone else at least.)

Confused, Yaxley stood up, searching for the assailant. Seeing Harry's disembodied hand, Yaxley struggled to pull out his wand but Harry got there first: " _Stupefy!_ " And the Death Muncher was down for the count.

Merlin cursed. _Well this looks all too familiar._

Why couldn't they wait until he left?

 _Rude!_

Merlin stood still, hoping to deflect their attention.

 _No, no, no! Not this time._

"Harry!"

"Hermione, if you think I was just going to let her lie through her teeth—"

"No! Mrs. Cattermole and Ron! Look!"

The Dementors flew forward, surrounding Ginger-In-Disguise and Mrs. Cattermole. The woman struggled against her chains, letting out a piercing scream as the Dementor's gnarly hand closed around her neck.

" _Reg_!" she sobbed. Ginger-in-Disguise could only stare, petrified with despair. He trembled as another Dementor approached him.

Luckily, though, Harry saved the day.

" _Expecto Patronum!"_

A silver stag burst from the tip of Harry's wand, illuminating the dank, dark room like the sun. The Dementors screeched and fled back to the shadows, the stag galloping behind them, leaving trails of silver mist in the air around the "two" Cattermoles. Merlin basked in the warmth.

"Hermione! Get the locket!" Harry shouted as he jumped off the platform, running to his friend. Hermione obliged, ripping a glittering locket over Umbridge's head and stuffing it in her robes.

Meanwhile, Merlin looked around the room for a back exit and, having found one, raced towards it while the group sorted out their priorities. Just as Merlin closed the door behind him, he heard, " _Where'd he go_?"

Victory! Merlin grinned. Now, he could probably help them escape. If the Ministry knew they had intruders, then the first thing they'd do was seal off all exits—the Flooplaces.

Merlin dashed to the lift, Misting through the golden grilles, even as they opened, and beckoned them to close.

" _Intruders! Intruders in the Ministry—"_

The lift descended and the voice faded away. Merlin stiffened, willing the lift to descend faster.

"Level eight—" Merlin ignored the monotone voice and Misted through the golden grilles, landing five feet away from the lift. He walked quickly into the Atrium, hoping against hope that he made it in time.

A storm of people swarmed the Atrium, scurrying to Flooplace, after Flooplace, sealing them off. Screams and orders bounced through his ears—" _Intruders! Intruders! Seal everything off!"_

His eyes widened. _No . . ._

About half of the Flooplaces closest to the lifts were out-of-order and Merlin knew that, unless he wanted all of them sealed by the time Harry & Co. got here, he needed to make trouble.

Wildly, he peered around, looking for a suitable distraction. He could make it rain again, or introduce a flock of Cornish Pixies, perhaps, or—

His mouth curved into a slow, wicked smile as he glanced at the dreadful statue hovering like a demon over the assembled masses.

Childish glee danced about in his stomach. _Finally!_ He was going to do it. He was actually going to do it! And _gods_ , he had never felt more excited in his life.

Focusing on the hulking statue, he raised his hand, inch by inch, smile widening, before his eyes glowed a molten gold and his hand closed into a tight fist.

The next thing he knew, the world _exploded._

Writhing black smoke expelled from the mouths of the metal witch and wizard, zooming around the statue like a vortex.

" _Look! The statue!"_

The atrium froze over as everyone watched the smoke with bated breath. Never had it been so silent—Merlin could have heard a pin drop.

But it didn't last long.

A roar bellowed from the statue, louder than a freight train, as the black smoke dissipated into air. And as the Atrium cleared, people began to scream, stumbling backwards. An old witch next to Merlin fainted as soon as she glimpsed the creature that emerged from the statue's remains.

Where there used to be a throne room was now a ring of black rubble; inside thundered a magnificent metal dragon, sneering and snorting at the screaming witches and wizards below. The Ministry workers had stopped sealing off Flooplaces, watching the dragon with wary eyes and outstretched wands.

The dragon gazed down at them, sanguine eyes crackling like fire. He roared again and climbed on his haunches, extended his shadowy wings, and launched into the air, swooping down at his brave attackers.

Screams proliferated as people dove for the Flooplaces, Apparating away to safety, whilst others shot futile curses and spells at the massive dragon. Like a machete, the dragon's tail swept away them all, flinging them high up against the walls, where they slumped to the floor, unconscious.

Merlin's smile was as wide as Russia.

 _Finally, a statue put to good use._ Now he knew the dragon wouldn't kill anyone, but just the sight of it flapping around was enough to scare most people. Especially since, to these people, it had come from _nowhere_ (or maybe God for the religious ones) _._

Merlin winced as a piercing shriek resonated yards away. He whipped around and found Mrs. Cattermole pressed up against the wall, panting, as if someone had poured a bucket of pure terror over her face.

" _Reg!_ " she screamed, clinging onto Ginger-In-Disguise who was desperately trying to get away. Harry and Hermione were frozen, stunned still by the metal dragon who now inhabited these halls.

"W-Where's the statue?" Hermione whispered as her stomach sank with realization.

Trembling, Harry pointed at the dragon.

Merlin scowled.

The dragon roared again in the background.

" _Oi!"_ he shouted at the group. They flinched and turned to him. "I didn't do this so that you could stand and stare at it like a bunch of tourists! _Go!_ "

They looked at him, wide-eyed. "Y-You what . . .?" Hermione gasped.

Merlin furrowed his brows. What . . .? His eyes widened and he cursed—he'd just admitted to this! But still—

"What are you waiting for? The Aurors are on their way!" he continued, herding them down the Atrium.

And just as he shouted that, Yaxley appeared and dashed towards them like an angry hornet, wand outstretched. Hermione shrieked as she dived to the ground, narrowly missing a bludgeoning curse. Scrambling back up, she took Harry's hand and _ran,_ ducking and diving under the man's curses.

" _Intruders_!" the man screamed around him at his fellow Ministry personnel. "I don't care if there's a blasted dragon chasing after you! If you don't capture those three, I'll have your jobs!"

"Ron!" Harry called. Ron clawed himself out of Mrs. Cattermole's embrace: "Look—I'm not your husband. Go find him and your kids and leave the bloody country before this happens again!"

The real Reg Cattermole appeared just seconds later, pale and sickly. " _Mary!_ What—"

Merlin ducked a curse himself. _Ah bollocks!_ He began dashing in the direction of the trio, Ministry personnel on his tail. _They heard me admit to the dragon._

As if things couldn't get any worse, the Polyjuice Potions suddenly wore off and the three transformed back into their original bodies.

" _Potter! It's Harry Potter!"_ someone shouted before taking cover from the dragon's swinging tail.

Merlin dropped to the ground as the metal tail passed, looking around wildly for Yaxley—his eyes widened— _oh, that's bad news._

Aurors flooded the Atrium and surrounded the dragon, flinging curses and Freezing Charms.

 _Why is it that all my plans go to shite?_ Merlin groaned.

Yaxley increased speed, an evil gleam sparkling in his eyes. "Not so fast, Potter!" he shouted, firing another curse that slammed into the wall next to the running trio, spraying glass in their faces.

Harry covered his eyes, wincing as the glass scratched his cheek. He forced himself forward though, dizzy with fear as he threw another glance back and saw Yaxley gaining on them.

"Come on!" he yelled to his two friends, gripping Ron's arm and dragging him forward. Hermione was on his heels, her face bloody and stricken. Harry whipped his head around and sprinted to the nearest fireplace, hoping against hope that they would make it out in time.

As he ducked another curse, he caught a flash of neon orange in the corner of his eye. His mouth thinned. It was that wizard—from the cafe, from the lift, the one who'd claimed credit for the bloody dragon and was even helping them escape!

Without even thinking, Harry steered towards him.

"Harry!" Hermione shrieked after him but Harry didn't notice. He would get answers even if he had to—

Harry gripped onto the back of the man's robes and _pulled_. They stumbled backwards toward the fireplaces and the man, too stunned to struggle, merely gaped at him. But before either could make a move, a hand gripped Harry's arm and launched them both into the fireplace.

A split-second later, Yaxley dived in behind them and they were _gone_.


	3. Pledging His Allegiance

Now, Merlin had been kidnapped a few times before (most of which were with Arthur), but, he had to admit that, in all 1,500 years of his life, he had never quite been kidnapped like this.

It had been _decades_ since he'd last Apparated. His style of teleportation was much _older_ (and in his opinion _better_ ) than any means of transportation these modern wizards used. That awful feeling of being dragged through a tube while invisible forces compressed his body, _his soul_ , it just—! He shivered. He felt _violated._ (Even more so since he'd been bloody kidnapped!)

Though it was rather shameful that a seventeen-year-old kid had managed to get the drop on a 1,500-year-old all-powerful _warlock_. Groaning, he pushed himself off the ground, muttering centuries-old curses (and promising to turn the Boy-Who-Kidnapped into an artichoke).

If he'd disguised himself as an old man, he probably could have whacked the boy with his cane but, _alas,_ he preferred his youthful body this year.

. . . Maybe he'd do it anyway. He discreetly summoned his cane, hand embracing its polished wood like a long-lost friend.

(Of course he'd get kidnapped on a _Monday_.)

Now, just where was he . . .?

Looking around, he found himself in a forest. The trees formed a blanket of leaves fifty feet off the ground, shielding him from blinding sunlight. Dark green spotted his vision everywhere he looked—in bushes, in shrubs, and even in the little bird tweeting on a tree branch. The forest appeared as dreary as he felt, as if it too had been overshadowed by war (or being kidnapped). It was so _quiet._

 _Too_ quiet.

Merlin supposed that even the animals knew something Evil was coming.

The wind picked up around him, bringing echoes of groans and frantic whispers. Merlin glared in that direction. He saw the three wizards climbing to their feet, though they appeared as shadows through the foggy underbrush.

" _Where—where are we? Hermione? Why aren't we at Grimmauld Place?"_ Merlin heard another masculine groan. It was probably Ginger. What was his name again? Donald?

(The boy nearly Splinched on the way here, but he prevented that. Kidnappers or not, a Splinched arm was a nasty piece of work.)

But since they hadn't seen him yet . . . Merlin envisioned his home, preparing to teleport, but—he stopped.

He heaved a sigh. No. It was too late. He was involved whether he liked it or not. The Old Religion trembled every moment that red-eyed, snake-faced _monster_ breathed. He could feel it in his bones, in his _soul_ , that it was time.

And, undoubtedly, the Ministry had begun calling him Undesirable No. 4. The spell on his records only worked if the viewer had a passing interest in his name.

(That was perhaps an oversight on his part, but he hadn't expected to be embroiled in the conflict this _early._ )

 _. . . Bollocks._

He couldn't stay out of this war any longer.

. . . But—he didn't _want_ to fight in another war _._ He was _tired._ Done! He'd seen _tens_ upon _hundreds_ of wars and they all got progressively _worse._

( _Swords clashing_ — _screaming_ — _men drawing their last breaths_ —Stop!)

Wars and more wars—the fighting _never_ ends! He didn't want to see or participatein them anymore. There was only so much death and destruction a man could take.

( _From swords to guns and guns to bombs. Why couldn't humans channel their rage into something less bloody, like hopscotch?)_

He just wanted Arthur to come back. Hadn't he _waited_ enough—been _punished_ enough for his failure?

 _No, no, no—stop!_ he told himself. _Don't think of that._

Happy—

( _"None of us can choose our destiny, Merlin. And none of us can escape it."_ )

—thoughts!

He closed his eyes and searched for that calm, empty part of his mind, the one focused on mundane, whimsical things, like how Mondays were Bad Things or how the new Minister looked like a duck with Arthur's head up his arse.

He forced a smile onto his face.

Then he dismissed the war, dismissed the Old Religion's rumblings, and groused at his kidnappers.

Cane in hand, Merlin followed the teenagers' voices.

* * *

Harry woke up in some kind of forest, memories hazy and vision blurry. He fumbled around in his pockets for his glasses, praying that he hadn't broken them in the fall. Grasping them, he breathed a sigh of relief and jammed his glasses onto his face.

Ron was face-down on the dirt. Cattermole's clothes were now several sizes too small and breaking at the seams. Harry's own stolen robes fell over him like a curtain and Hermione still had Mafalda's purse, which toppled to the ground as Hermione wobbled to her feet. The mission had been chaotic, but worth it. He felt the locket's weight in his robe pocket.

He looked around, staring at the mass of _green_ , trying to remember—

Harry's eyes widened as the haze cleared and revealed the forest was one person short. He whipped around, looking for telltale orange robes. But the man was nowhere to be found. Harry cursed under his breath. _How_ did he get away in the middle of Apparition? It wasn't supposed to be possible! Harry hadn't let the man go! His fist was still curled, as if clutching some imaginary wrist. He clenched his teeth. All his plans always went _wrong._

 _Hang on . . . Why are we here?_

Dread churned in his stomach. They were in Mother Nature's stronghold rather than in his godfather's rickety old apartment. Heart beating and mouth dry, Harry turned towards Hermione, "Where—where are we? Hermione? Why aren't we at Grimmauld Place?"

Harry's heart sank when Hermione shook her head. "I'm _so_ sorry, Harry . . . Yaxley grabbed onto me as soon as we Apparated away and," unshed tears glittered in her eyes, "and I Apparated him through the wards. If—if I showed him in, then I've shown him the secret and—" She stopped. A cold wind sunk into his skin. "This forest was the first place I thought to go," Hermione admitted, eyes glazed as she looked around at the tall trees and shadowy canopy. "My parents and I came here on a camping trip a few years ago." She began trembling at the thought of her parents—a mother and father who could no longer, and might never, remember their daughter.

 _No . . ._ Harry couldn't fathom it. Twelve Grimmauld Place _compromised._ The one safe haven they'd had in this war and now, just like Hogwarts, it was _gone._

Harry felt naked. Sick.

He imagined with a sense of dawning horror that Kreacher was still there, making a dinner they would never consume. Sirius' possessions were still there, photos and letters and mementos of his godfather that he might never see again. It was a Death Eater stronghold now. Harry's chest constricted.

"Are you—are you sure we can't go back?"

Hermione looked stricken. "I don't think so. We're the Secret Keepers now that Dumbledore d-died and I brought him past the Fidelius Charm protection—"

Harry's eyes widened—

 _What if . . .?_

"Hermione!" he interjected. "Did you leave the man in orange robes at Grimmauld Place, too?"

Hermione furrowed her brows, thinking. "The man in orange—?" Her eyes widened and she gaped at him. " _Harry_!" she hissed. "Tell me you didn't!"

When he didn't answer right away, she let out a frustrated moan. "I can't believeyou! _Harry—_ "

Fire ignited in the pit of Harry's stomach, consuming his memories of the past day like fuel. "Oh for the love of _Merlin,_ Hermione!" he snarled. "We've run into this bloke at every twist and turn! Do you expect me to just watch and do _nothing_ as he keeps following us?"

"He wasn't following us!" she returned, indignant. "He works at the ministry!"

"What about that night in the cafe? Don't tell me that was just a coincidence. No one goes to a bloody _coffee_ shop at _night!_ "

Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath. "Did you even _think_ about what we were going to do with him before you—you _kidnapped_ him? If Yaxley hadn't grabbed onto me, we would have Apparated _him_ through the wards, too! If he was an enemy like you seem to think, then we would have had to leave _anyway_."

Harry gaped. He hadn't thought about _that._

Furious, Hermione continued, "What were you _thinking,_ Harry? You—"

"What was I _thinking_?" Harry hissed. "I was _thinking_ that I wanted answers, Hermione—"

"Answers to _what_? He hasn't done anything suspicious! He helped us escape, Harry!" She paled. "He helped us _escape_ and we showed him our gratitude by _kidnapping_ him and making him a _fugitive_!" she moaned. "This is a disaster!"

Harry clenched his teeth, "A little late to cry over spilt milk, isn't it?" He knew he'd made a mistake, but she didn't have to _rub_ it in his face!

She glared at him. " _Harry James Potter_ —"

Her breath caught as she came to a shaky realization.

"I-I only shook Yaxley off . . . He—he must be here, too." Without a thought, Harry whipped out his hand. "He's _not_ an _enemy,_ Harry," Hermione whispered frantically, but pulled out her wand anyway. "We should apologize—"

" _That's why you have your wand out,_ " Harry muttered under his breath. She was wary, too—probably wondering whether he'd just made yet another enemy.

Leaves shuffled behind them as Ron stumbled to his feet, rubbing his right arm. " _Bloody hell_ , what—!"

" _Ron!"_ Hermione hissed, throwing him a warning look. _"Quiet!"_

Brows scrunching together, Ron closed his mouth, throwing a confused look at Harry. But he didn't dare speak. He felt the tension in the air.

Unsettling quiet filled the forest. It felt _too_ quiet. He didn't hear any birds chirping or leaves rustling. It was like Mother Nature was holding her breath, too.

" _Homenum Revelio,"_ Hermione whispered, waving her wand at the surrounding forest. Nothing happened as far as Harry could see, but Hermione gasped, panicked brown eyes staring at a space directly behind him.

" _Harry, watch out—!"_ she shrieked just as a blunt, stick-like object rapped him on the back of the head.

He toppled over in surprise, head pulsing with dulled pain—

" _Stupefy!"_ Hermione yelled.

—but he wasted no time in rolling around and pointing his wand at his assailant.

The air shimmered in front of him as Hermione's red spell jetted past, slamming into a tree and fizzling out. Suddenly, a lanky, dark-haired man with ancient, blue eyes and a goofy smile materialized. His neon orange robes blinded Harry for a second, but his aim never faltered. And . . . Was that a _cane_ in his hands?

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that kidnapping isn't nice?" the man huffed at him, but Harry wasn't listening. He jumped to his feet.

" _Incarcerous!"_

Faster than Harry could follow, ropes flew from the tip of his wand, intent on trapping the man.

But the man simply grinned and threw his cane at the incoming ropes. As soon as they collided, both cane and ropes _disappeared_ in a flash of golden light. Hermione gasped. Harry's eyes nearly burst from their sockets. No spell, no wand—! He merely threw a bloody _cane_ into his spell and _stopped_ it.

" _Expelliarmus!"_ Ron shouted behind him, but the man just ducked.

 _Where is his wand?_ Harry wondered. _Did he lose it?_

A rainbow of spells shot from every corner of the clearing, but the man dodged, ducked, and blocked them all. _All with no wand . . ._ Harry's heart leapt into his throat as the man blocked yet another spell just by holding up his hand and grasping Hermione's spell like a struggling worm. Harry began to wonder whether he should have kidnapped this man after all . . . _Maybe Hermione was right . . . Bloody hell,_ what was he saying? Hermione was _always_ right!

Silence. Ron and Hermione maneuvered around him until they had the man surrounded. But Harry had a sinking feeling that nothing they could do would be enough to contain this wizard.

(And he'd seen the humongous dragonthe man created at the Ministry. Even a bloody _dung beetle_ knew that took powerful magic.)

Harry aimed his wand at the grumbling wizard, prepared to shoot off another round of spells when—

"Harry, wait!" Hermione cried. "He's not attacking us back!" Harry paused. The man wasn't. Even now, the man just stood stock-still, calmly observing them. Still, Harry didn't lower his wand.

"Well," the man quipped, "if this is how you treat your rescuers, then I'd hate to see how you treat your enemies." His cheer was unsettling. He didn't seem the least bit ruffled by the pseudo-battle or by the fact that he was surrounded.

"Y—You attacked Harry with a _bloody cane_!" Ron blustered. "How do you expect us to treat you, you nutter?"

The man blinked. "Oh that? My cane doesn't like it when I'm kidnapped. I'm afraid it has a terrible temper about it, too." He didn't look at all remorseful.

"What wizard under ninety _even has_ a cane!" Ron spluttered.

Hermione stared at the man, alarmed. "I'm so sorry, sir, this is a _terrible_ misunderstanding! We didn't mean to—"

But Harry had had just about enough. Before Hermione could finish, Harry stepped forward and fired, " _Who_ are you? How did you know it was me in the lift at the Ministry?"

" _Harry!"_

Harry had so many more questions. _What were you doing in the café that night? Why did you help us escape? How did you stop those ropes and spells?_

The man blinked, mouth forming a circular 'O,' before responding, "Well, let's see—on Mondays through Fridays, I'm Martin Jones. I would say it's nice to see you again, but it's most certainly not. I don't appreciate being kidnapped. The apology is start, though." He beamed at Hermione.

". . . You said your name was Marvin Emrys last time," Hermione spoke quietly, a tinge of caution coloring her voice. Harry's grip tightened around his wand.

The man looked surprised. "Was it on a Saturday?" Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion. "I think so . . ."

The man smiled, "That solves it! On Saturdays and Sundays, I'm Marvin Emrys. But today—you can call me Merlin."

The three wizards just stared at him. Ron looked flabbergasted.

"Which one is it?" Ron asked dubiously, "Martin, Marvin, or Merlin?"

"Exactly!" the man beamed at him.

Ron just stared at him, mouth agape. "Blimey, he's _mad!"_ he whispered to Hermione, who, at this point, appeared rather uncomfortable.

"How did you know it was me on the lift in the Ministry?" Harry pressed, taking another step forward. Hermione furrowed her brows.

"But he was under Polyjuice Potion," she murmured to herself.

"Yeah," Ron whispered to her, "and the bloke still knew." 'Merlin' looked . . . embarrassed.

"Oh—well," he laughed, "I'm not very good with names so I just make them up when I can't remember them. Harry's a really common name, you know." He harrumphed. "It was between 'Harry' and 'John' and between you and me, I wished I'd gone with John since going with 'Harry' got me bloody kidnapped."

Harry just stared at him, skeptical. "Are you _mental_?" Ron sputtered.

"No, I'm Merlin," the man told him. Ron just shook his head in amazement. Harry shared a skeptical look with Hermione.

"Why should we believe that?" Harry asked him.

The man blinked. "Well—if you don't believe my name's Merlin, I suppose you can call me Marvin."

"No, not that," Harry said, annoyed. No one was this bloody clueless. He must be doing it on purpose! "Your name—er—mix-up."

" _Oh._ What else would you believe, then?" 'Merlin' shot back, cocking his head. Ron groaned.

Harry glared at 'Merlin.' "That you've been following us, that you're a Death Eater, that—"

" _Harry!"_ Hermione hissed. "A Death Eater wouldn't help us escape! Neither would one let you know he knows you're under disguise!"

"How would you know?" Ron grumbled. "It could all be a part of their evil plan to capture Harry!"

" _Ron!_ That's illogical!"

"Not as illogical as _him_!" Ron pointed to Merlin. "I understand Luna better than him and I don't understand _her_ at all!"

Hermione merely sighed.

Merlin looked thoughtful. "I haven't been following you. If anything, you three have been following me!"

" _What—?"_ Harry started, but Merlin continued.

"—You followed me to that coffee dumpster and then to the Ministry. I'm flattered, but don't you have anything better to do than stalk me?"

Hermione sent him a wild stare. "Sir, we most certainly have not been following you—"

"Oh! And I'm not a Death Eater either." He raised his arm— _Harry tensed_ —and pulled his sleeve back. His arm was bare. Harry relaxed somewhat. "That would be awfully boring," he explained, cringing. "If you listen in on their gatherings, you'll find yourself falling asleep in no time! All they do is glorify purebloods and that barmy, inhuman toe-rag."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione gaped at him. "How do _you_ know?" Ron squeaked, eyes like saucers.

( _Barmy, inhuman toe-rag . . .?_ Harry wasn't sure whether he should be mortified or amused.)

Merlin furrowed his brows at them. "How else would I know? I listened in on one."

"Y—You were _there_?"

Merlin gave Hermione a funny look. "No, of course not. I taped it and listened to the tape." He started digging around in his pockets. Finally, Merlin pulled out a big cassette. Muttering to himself, he placed it flat on his palm and _snapped his fingers_.

Harry gaped. _How is he doing that?_ Was this man so skilled that he needed no wand or incantation to do magic? How had no one ever heard of him? Hermione and Ron seemed to share similar thoughts as voices emerged from the cassette.

" _Nagini, come my ssssssweet. Let'sssss begin our morning sssstretchessss,"_ hissed a familiar high-pitched voice.

Harry _froze._

 _Morning stretches? Does he mean—murder?_

His blood ran cold, trying to figure out who Voldemort had captured this time, praying it wasn't a Weasley or a Hogwarts student.

But in the next second, very . . . _characteristic_ moans broke the tense silence. For a second, the four occupants of the forest just stared at the tape, the sexual revelation hanging in the air like a death sentence.

But then 'Merlin' sprang into action. Fumbling with the tape, he turned it off and shoved it back into his pockets, ears turning pink.

"Uh . . . oops?" he stuttered.

Hermione looked scandalized.

 _That . . . was not something I ever needed to know._ Harry felt like retching.

"What kind of surveillance is _that?_ " Ron squeaked. His face was as red as his hair.

Merlin coughed. "Too much." An awkward silence fell over the clearing.

Gathering her wits (and having half a mind to Obliviate herself), Hermione broke the silence, "Well . . . No Death Eater would use Muggle technology." She looked pointedly at Harry. "And there's no Mark on his wrist."

Harry frowned. "How did you get that— _tape_?" Harry flushed as the—the _hissing_ filled his mind. _No_ — _stop thinking about it!_ He viciously shoved the thought out of his mind and forced himself to focus on the present. He took a deep breath.

Harry couldn't quite wrap his head around this man, this _wizard. How would you even get close enough to tape his meetings? How did you not get caught?_ Wouldn't Voldemort have protections against this sort of spying? He thought that was why the Order had to install a spy. _And that worked out well, didn't it?_

Merlin's blue eyes _twinkled._ It was so much like Dumbledore's that Harry felt a pang in his chest.

"Magic," Merlin replied, grinning. Red-hot frustration began to bubble in Harry's stomach. This man had told them hardly _anything_! _Just like Dumbledore,_ he thought ruefully.

Harry desperately wanted to have a moment alone to talk with Ron and Hermione and figure out what they were going to do with the man. But, as they had just witnessed, they couldn't land a spell on the man, much less a stunner. Indecision gripped him. _What were they going to do?_ Harry cursed himself for not thinking this through. He should've just left without the man, burning questions or not. Because now they had an infuriating, mysterious nutcase with them who may or may not be on their side.

(Though . . . Harry supposed that it _was_ rather unlikely that the man supported Voldemort.)

Merlin seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, too, because his eyes, his _ancient,_ blue eyes, shone with amusement.

"Now that I'm a fugitive—"

Hermione flinched.

"—I suppose I'll just have to join your merry band of phoenixes."

" _Phoenixes"? Does he know . . .? That's too much of a coincidence_ , Harry decided. Hermione thought so, too. She blinked, startled, and asked, "You know of the . . . Order?"

Merlin gave her a sideways glance, "Even if I didn't, I certainly do now." Hermione looked abashed. Still, she plowed on, "Are you a member?"

"In spirit," the man quipped. Hermione sighed. Just as well, Harry decided, because they probably would have seen him by now if he were a member.

Ron just shook his head in amazement.

Though nothing Hermione said gave anything away. She _never said_ what exactly the Order was, which meant Merlin already knew . . .? Still, Harry wasn't satisfied. There was too much to lose if he— _they_ —were wrong. "Prove it," he ordered, steel coating his voice.

"Harry . . ." Hermione trailed off. "He helped us at the Ministry—and the coffee shop. He doesn't have a Mark either." Ron grunted, eyes wavering uncertainly between Harry and Merlin.

"How do I prove my spiritual membership?" Merlin asked, confused. "Do you need a show of faith? I'm afraid I don't know the proper way to pray to a phoenix . . ."

"Swear it," Harry growled, wand raising slightly. "There's some way he can magically swear his allegiance, right, Hermione?" He looked over at her, but didn't find any reassurance. "Um . . . Well . . ." She looked uncertain. "There's the Unbreakable Vow," she replied quietly.

Harry and Ron stared at her, stunned.

"Blimey, Hermione." Ron shivered. "That Vow turns people into—into _slaves._ "

Hermione frowned. "No, it doesn't quite do that, Ron. Wizards and witches just don't use it lightly because any sudden misstep or wrongly worded vow can result in someone's death." She frowned. "But it's the only magical 'swear' I know. I've never heard of magical swears, just magical contracts."

Harry frowned. "Then—"

A quiet chuckle interrupted him. Harry glared at the grinning perpetrator. "What's so funny?" he growled.

"You young whippersnappers," Merlin laughed, blue eyes twinkling. ( _Here was his chance!_ )

Ron bristled. "'What are you talking about? You can't be much older than us, you tosspot!"

Merlin merely smiled. "There is one magical swear. It's older than I am—"

(" _Like that's a big achievement,_ " Ron snorted.)

"—and all it requires is an oath on the swearer's magic."

(Well there really wasn't, but they didn't need to know that.)

The trio blinked.

"How do we know that you're not lying?" Harry asked cautiously.

"Because you'll feel it."

Harry glanced uncertainly at his friends.

"I dunno, mate," Ron told him. "If Hermione doesn't know it . . ." He trailed off, shrugging.

"Even I don't know everything about magic, Ron," Hermione admitted. She didn't look particularly happy at the admission. Harry hesitated, about to say something when Merlin clapped his hands together and quipped, "Marvelous! Let's start!"

Merlin hoped that the three were not familiar with American patriotism.

Merlin put his hand over his heart and said, "I pledge allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix and the Wizarding world for which it stands. I swear upon my magic that I will do them or any affiliated with them no harm." And, just for the hell of it, Merlin added, "So mote it be."

(He'd read that line in a lot of fantasy novels. It always made him giggle.)

As soon as Merlin finished speaking, golden sparks erupted from his right hand and the very air seemed to tremble with the weight of his oath.

(Really, though, Merlin was just blowing hot air with his Magic. Though there _may_ have been a compulsion spell mixed in.)

Rather unexpectedly, Merlin's hair shot straight up, as if a hair magnet rested above it. The trio just stared at the new development, aghast.

"Is that elec—" But before Hermione could finish, Merlin's hair dropped limply to his skull.

On instinct, Harry raised his wand.

His grip loosened, however, as an electric current rushed up the sides of his body. It was _warm,_ like a stream of hot water, but also in a volatile sense, like an engine about to overheat. He stood absolutely still as it sailed through him, holding in his breath and even stomach. _What's happening? Did_ he _do this?_

He nearly jumped as the warm, electric-like current reached his hair, shocking his unruly, black locks into tall, stiff spikes. They looked like mini-trees—just without branches and leaves.

"Blimey, Harry!" Ron pointed to the top of his head, snorting. "Your hair looks like it got shocked by your scar!" After a minute or so, his hair returned to its normal unruly mess.

Ron wasn't nearly as pleased when the electric-like current slammed through him, however.

"What _was_ that?" he gasped, prodding his own set of redwoods once and then twice, as if he couldn't believe it existed. "I don't even have enough hair for this!" As the last golden sparks winked out of existence, though, his hair also reverted to its previous state.

Hermione frowned and clawed at her head, brown locks standing taller than Ron's and Harry's combined. A few seconds later, her spiky 'do disappeared as well. "Was that _supposed_ to happen?" she directed at Merlin, skeptical. "I've never heard of an oath or contract that produces _this_ kind of result."

Harry tensed, taking a step back. Ron's wand hand twitched.

Merlin laughed, blue eyes shining. "You felt it, though, didn't you?"

"Felt what?" Harry pressed, eyes narrowing.

"Magic!"

(To make sure the three didn't recognize his inspiration for the swear, Merlin had to instigate a distraction, which he probably should have made a bit more believable . . .)

" _That's_ what magic feels like?" Hermione gasped. "I never thought you could do that!"

"What are you talking about, 'Mione?" Ron interjected. "Of course you can!"

Hermione glared at him. "Name one instance where you've felt magic, Ronald."

Ron hesitated. "Uh, well, there was . . . that time that . . ." He trailed off, disgruntled.

"I thought so," Hermione replied, eyebrow raised. "Magic comes from the soul and you can't _feel_ your soul, you just know it's there. It's the same principle with magic. We just experienced the impossible," she finished, throwing a confused glance as Merlin.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Does that mean the oath was fake, then?"

Hermione fidgeted. "I . . ."

Merlin shook his head. "Of course not! Your friend here is talking about modern magic. In Ye Olden Days, wizards didn't use wands, merely incantations, because they opened themselves to the Old Religion—that's the source of all magic. Since modern wizards no longer embrace the Old Religion, they no longer have access to their fullest magical capabilities." He sounded rather sad as he said it. It struck Harry that he sounded oddly serious and, well, _lucid._

Hermione's brows furrowed in deep thought. "I've _read_ that term somewhere. I know it! But Professor Bins never mentioned it in History of Magic."

"He didn't mention much of anything," Harry muttered under his breath. He felt more _relaxed_ after the oath for some reason. Did that mean the oath worked? And Hermione was somewhat familiar with Merlin's explanation . . .

Ron shrugged. "Well if it's familiar to 'Mione, then it must be real." He turned to Hermione. "It _is_ real, right?" Though a little hesitant, Hermione nodded to him. She'd _felt_ and _seen_ the tremors and hair-raising effects the oath produced.

"Wait." Hermione frowned, looking at Merlin. "How do you know this? It must be really obscure information! There are no books on the Old Religion in the Hogwarts library."

Merlin sent her a knowing grin. "I was homeschooled."

Hermione pursed her lips. "Who taught you?"

Merlin cocked his head, "A wise, old, sadistic dragon." Hermione huffed at the cryptic message.

Before she could press further, Merlin asked, "Do I need to pray to a phoenix now or is my Pledge of Allegiance enough?"

(He found it hilarious how he, the _kidnapped_ , had to prove _his_ good intentions to his _kidnappers._ Wasn't it usually the other way around?)

"Er—right." Harry stuffed his wand into his pocket. Ron and Hermione followed suit. At Hermione's glare, Harry continued, "And sorry for kidnapping you."

Merlin brightened up considerably and waved off his apology. "It's been far too long since I've had hordes of evil s—wizards after me."

(Oops. He nearly said "sorcerers.")

Ron and Harry shared a look. Ron shrugged. Harry couldn't tell whether or not the man was being sarcastic, so he simply repeated, "Right."

A surge of fatigue suddenly hit him and he felt the urge to sit down. He could even feel the phantom throbbing in the back of his head where Merlin's cane hit him.

His stomach rumbled, too, and he nearly called to Kreacher to whip up lunch when he remembered— _they were not and were never going back to Twelve Grimmauld Place._

Harry swallowed painfully. "Hermione, do we have anything to eat?" Ron sent her an eager glance as his stomach grumbled. That brought him to another thought—"We left everything at Grimmauld Place, didn't we." It wasn't a question, but a statement, one that twisted his innards.

As Hermione shook her head, however, the feeling vanished. "I packed all the essentials in this," she held up a small, brown bag by its chain. Harry furrowed his brows, "But—"

"Extension charm," she supplied. Harry blinked. "Oh. Good thinking." Ron nodded, shifting uneasily. Harry could tell he wanted to ask about the Horcrux, but . . . He threw a glance at Merlin, who was just watching them with a small smile on his face. He may be no Death Eater and he might even be an ally, but Harry wasn't prepared to trust him yet. And neither, it seemed, were Ron and Hermione. Hell, it took him a long time just to tell his _best friends in the entire world_ about his mission. Harry wasn't entirely sure he wanted the man to accompany them. This was a _secret_ mission. They couldn't be picking up every stray they came across . . . even if they were responsible for making the man a "stray." On the other hand, . . . he _was_ desperately curious about the man who needed no wand nor incantation to perform magic.

 _Crunch!_

Leaves and sticks cried out as Hermione walked to the edge of the clearing, muttering protection spells and waving her wand.

" _Salvio Hexia . . . Protego Totalum . . ._ " And so it went. "The tent's in my bag, Harry," she directed.

Harry nodded absently and walked over to her bag, reaching downward for the tent—

And that was when his scar _exploded._


End file.
